My wife and I were sitting on the Rambla in Montevideo, Uruguay, when word came down via the interwebs that Donald Trump is going to be throwing ketchup drenched hamburdlers against the wall tonight.
For so many of us normal people, the moment in 2016, when Donald Trump was caught on a hot mic admitting sexual assault and still won the presidency was a really low point in our faith in American civic life. That faith remains shaken, as he shudders along the road to being the GOP nominee once more. He is a sexual predator, he always has been. The jury found he sexually assaulted E. Jean Carroll. When she came forward, he defamed her. Repeatedly. He did it this week.
And now he has to pay a tremendous amount of money. Even if he wants to appeal, he has to pony up the money; money which he said under oath that he has. This is going to sting, all because he couldn't keep his puckered asshole of a mouth closed. He has the discipline of a spoiled toddler, but yeah, let's make him president again.
I try to live by Epictetus' words: "He who angers you becomes your master." I try not to feel hatred or anger towards anyone, and I work to see things through my opposite number's perspective.
But THIS GUY? Fuck this guy. I hope he gets reamed in his NY fraud trial. I hope his bullshit immunity claims get shot down. I hope all of this gives him a slight stroke, one that causes him to lose his already limited ability to speak coherently. Because the fucking GOP will nominate him anyway!
Maybe by letting Trump anger me, he becomes my master, but I know E. Jean Carroll owns his ass.
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